


Bean Me Up

by khasael



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Coffee, Coffee Shops, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Pre-Slash, Star Trek - Freeform, Star Trek References, Star Trek: TNG, Star Trek: TOS, Trekkies/Trekkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 10:55:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/khasael/pseuds/khasael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike accidentally discovers where Harvey spends his Sunday mornings. And that his knowledge of Star Trek has a few gaps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bean Me Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MajaLi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajaLi/gifts), [ElectricKettle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricKettle/gifts), [uniquepov](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uniquepov/gifts), [thepretender501](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepretender501/gifts).



> This has been just a little something I've been playing with since I got hit with the idea almost 8 months ago, while working on my Inception fandom culinary school AU ("Recipe For Disaster"). Consequently, there's one line that's blatantly contradicted by the events of S2E10 ("High Noon"), as most of this was written between the airing of S1 and S2, though it can fall into the timeline of the show virtually any time.
> 
> Many thanks to Groolover for the beta job, and to MajaLi, UniquePOV, and ElectricKettle for assistance with all of the Star Trek references, when my own brain failed me on that front, and for periodically poking me, to make sure this didn't get abandoned when life filled up with craziness and obligations.
> 
> Lastly, yes, "trekkie" is used here instead of "trekker", but that's simply because this is Mike's voice.

That Mike's hungover is no great surprise.

It _is_ sort of a surprise, however, that he's stuck this far from where he lives, and the hangover and wrinkled clothes are all he has to show for it. Things are still a little fuzzy from last night, but the cold shoulder and curt direction down to the nearest subway station help to confirm that, no matter his original intent, Mike most certainly did _not_ have sex last night. There are vague recollections of getting into someone's car--someone who snarked like Harvey but looked quite a lot like Trevor, especially the more drinks Mike had--and possible groping once they'd stumbled into a dark apartment somewhere in Morningside Heights. But after that, Mike only really remembers pushing away and mumbling apologies, and a blanket tossed in his general direction.

And now, he's stuck on the bus, wishing like hell none of it had happened in the first place. He feels like shit, and most of that's the hangover, taking the 1 Train too far and missing the B Train connection near Central Park, getting all turned around by the subway and bus schedules that he has trouble comprehending when he feels like this, and just really wanting to be _home_ , instead of sitting next to some guy who hasn't showered in weeks, but that's not _all_ of it.

The rest of it goes deeper, but it's hard to face, especially when he's queasy, dealing with a monster of a headache, and mentally kicking himself for a dozen different reasons. So he tries--unsuccessfully--to not think about that part of it, and focus instead on making it home.

He doesn't quite make it. The guy next to him laughs for no reason, guffawing in Mike's face, and Mike decides to hell with the shitty Sunday transit schedule, he's getting off the bus for a while. Besides, there's a place up the block with a giant coffee cup outside, and coffee sounds like an excellent idea. He's somewhere in Hell's Kitchen, and all the places on this block might once have been run-down and sketchy, but all he can see are clean storefronts and classy boutiques and quaint (and probably expensive) restaurants. He wanders towards the open door, getting a whiff of coffee and sugar, and closes his eyes for just a moment. Yes. This is perfect. The name painted on the window is Bean Me Up, which makes Mike think of Harvey, the closet Trekkie, in some distant way.

The name of the place should have been an indication, but Mike's not entirely prepared for what he sees when he walks inside. All coffee shops basically look the same to him--the ones like Starbucks all have tables and chairs and lame world music playing, and some of the more indie ones have a few love seats and better music and the words "fair trade" plastered all over everything--but this. Just. Wow.

There's a life-size cutout of Jean-Luc Picard standing near the counter, next to the cream and sugar and lid station, and a framed photograph of William Shatner as James T. Kirk on the wall behind the registers, nestled between the drinks board and the food menu. The boards themselves have the Starfleet insignia and drawings of the Starship Enterprise done in chalk, and even some of the names are themed. Mike sees 'Cardassian Caramel Cream' at the top and blinks twice to make sure. There are more sofas and plush chairs than hard metal chairs, and there's even a big screen in the corner playing an episode of _The Original Series_.

Caffeine and Star Trek. Good God, this has got to be Geek Heaven for some guys.

Mike stands in line, taking it all in, only dimly registering the order of the guy in front of him ("Tea. Earl Grey. Hot."), until a girl wearing a red shirt and the word 'trainee' embroidered where a name tag might go smiles at him and asks for his order.

Mike hesitates for a second. "What would you recommend, if I wanted something on the sweet side?"

The girl chews her lower lip for a second. "A Miles O'Brien's black but double sweet. Or you could have an Aunt Ilsa--coffee with a lot of cream and honey."

Oh dear God, he's too hungover for this. "You know what? Just a large black coffee." He can add his own stuff to it.

"One Worf, coming right up."

Mike resists the urge to facepalm, just paying for his coffee and standing off to the side so the next customer can order (an Orion Slave Girl, which Mike can only figure is something with green tea; his knowledge of Star Trek is obviously lacking). He dumps some half and half and a few packets of raw sugar into his drink and stirs, one hand curled around the paper cup with the built-in sleeve. It's too hot to drink immediately, but that's fine; Mike can't even catch another bus for an hour, and there are plenty of places to sit while he waits for his brain to start working again.

He's about to settle into a seat in the corner away from the glare of sunlight, but suddenly a very familiar voice catches his attention, and he turns, almost positive he's experiencing his first hangover that includes auditory hallucinations. But then the person with that voice laughs, and, suddenly positive, Mike squints and gets a look at him. And then he just gapes. " _Harvey_?"

The owner of that laugh turns so that Mike can see more than just his profile and, yeah, it's absolutely Harvey. "Mike?"

"Friend of yours?" someone sitting on an overstuffed chair near Harvey's sofa asks, raising his eyebrows.

Harvey doesn't answer the question. "What the hell are you doing all the way up here on a Sunday morning?" He gets up and moves towards where Mike's standing, a ceramic coffee cup held casually in his hand. He's wearing jeans and a light blue henley and, though Mike's seen him in clothes other than suits before, it's still weird to see him dressed so casually in public.

He still looks fucking perfect, oozing effortless confidence and power, though.

"Getting coffee while I wait for my bus," Mike finally answers once he gets over the sight of weekend-Harvey. Actually, no. He's not over it. But his brain does sort of kick back on.

"Hey, Harvey, aren't you going to ask the kid to sit down with us?" the other guy asks, leaning forward from his seat.

This time Harvey does acknowledge his companion. He runs a hand through his hair and gestures to the couch where he's been sitting. "Unless you'll miss your bus?"

"No," Mike assures them quickly, stepping over to the other half of the couch. "I've got time." He settles down onto the cushion before Harvey can change his mind.

"Since Harvey here's apparently forgotten whatever manners he has," Harvey's companion says, holding out a hand, "I might as well introduce myself. I'm Nick."

Mike leans forward and shakes the offered hand. Nick's grip is firm in a way that reminds Mike of Harvey's--strength and authority and confidence in just a simple touch. "Mike."

"Oh, so _you're_ Mike," Nick says, raising his eyebrows up at Harvey, grinning. Harvey gives him a look Mike knows quite well--the 'shut up or I will kick your ass, damn it' look. "Been wondering when we might meet."

Mike gives him a look that's probably somewhere around 'politely perplexed,' and takes a sip of his coffee. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Figured it was only a matter of time." Nick laughs at Mike's expression. "Don't expect he's ever mentioned me at the office, though."

"I don't _think_ so," Mike says, taking in the way Nick's looking up at Harvey, and the way Harvey's glaring back while somehow still looking amused and maybe even fond. He has the thought that these two are incredibly comfortable together, and he gets this flash of them touching, kissing, and it fits. Somehow, the thought makes Mike's chest cramp.

"Of course not," Nick says easily, leaning back in his chair, but he doesn't elaborate at all.

"Stop it," Harvey says, shaking his head and flopping back onto his spot on the couch. "Don't mess with the kid's head."

"Oh, come on, Harvey," Nick says with a shrug. "It's fun. Just wanted to see if he's as bright as you say."

"He's probably brighter," Harvey snorts, and Mike's stomach drops to somewhere around his knees, even as it floats, crammed full of butterflies. That was a compliment, even if an indirect one. Something that small shouldn't hit him so hard, but it does--because it's Harvey, who doesn't hand them out freely. "Still."

"Oh, all right. Seems Ms. Pearson hasn't granted you a vacation long enough to have that stick surgically removed from your ass." Nick sighs, still smirking, and Mike can see that he's a man who can slip into any persona the situation warrants, with very little effort.

"Nick was my roommate during law school," Harvey finally says. "Biggest pain in my ass to walk the earth. Until I met Louis, anyway."

"Hey, now, comparing me to Louis Litt's taking it a bit far."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Maybe that's a result of that stick up my ass. Perhaps you should ask Jessica personally to give me the time off."

"You know she hates me."

"Yeah, I wonder why that is."

"Jesus, Harvey. The kid shows up and you get all grouchy." Nick makes a face and stands, gathering up his empty mug and plate and looking like he's about to storm off. But then Harvey stands and pulls a fake punch to Nick's ribs, and they both laugh. "I'll see you around, Harvey. The wife wants to know when you'll be over for dinner."

"Tell Allison I'll try to make it next weekend. Give her my love."

Mike watches this whole exchange, somewhat dumbfounded. What the hell did he just witness?

"She's going to hold us both to that," Nick says, eyebrows raised. He puts his dishes in a nearby bin, and turns back to them both before heading for the door. "See you soon, Harvey." Then he runs his eyes up and down Mike, something like an amused smirk playing on his lips. "Mike. Pleasure to put a face to the name. Do everyone a favor, and continue to keep him in line, would you?"

And with that comment and a casual little salute of the fingers aimed at Mike, he leaves, whistling some tune Mike doesn't know.

"Continue to--?" Mike manages after a moment, feeling like there's something--a lot of somethings, actually--he's missing here, before Harvey cuts him off.

"Don't ever listen to a word that man tells you." It's a warning, seemingly half truth and half playful, and it makes Mike pause, because Harvey's use of the word "ever" and his choice of the present tense in "tells" instead of "told" almost sounds like there will be future encounters, like Mike's somehow going to be seeing anyone Harvey knows socially outside of this one accidental run-in.

He's too hungover to work that one out, really. It'll just make his head hurt worse as he chases potential meanings around what is almost certainly nothing.

"That guy didn't seem nearly as bad as Louis," Mike says after another moment, suddenly realizing he and Harvey are still sharing a sofa, side by side and sort of in violation of one of those unspoken rules of public interaction, which indicates that Mike should probably move and sit in Nick's chair, facing Harvey, but leaving more room between them.

"Nick's nothing like Louis," Harvey says, lounging easily into his corner of the sofa, one ankle coming up to perch on his knee. Sneakers. Harvey Specter owns sneakers.

Mike starts to wonder if this is all some dream, and that guy he followed home last night hadn't just shared some awesomely vivid yet mellow hallucinogenic drugs. "But you said--"

"I said he was a pain in my ass, which is the absolute truth. But other than that, the only thing Nick Milton has in common with Louis Litt is the tendency to not know when it's best to shut the hell up, because he's too busy trying to get in a nice little dig at someone."

"Uh-huh." It's the only thing Mike can think of to say. He feels like he has to keep a conversation going, or Harvey's going to suddenly realize Mike's out of place here, they don't occupy any shared world that isn't directly tied to Pearson Hardman, and he'll tell Mike to leave in that way he has where it's phrased like a suggestion or question, but is really a condescending demand.

"Why doesn't Jessica like him, then? Nick? He seems...nice, I guess."

Harvey answers without looking at him, watching whatever episode is playing on the giant TV. "Same reason I don't like Trevor."

"He's a drug dealer?" Mike is careful to keep his voice down on the last two words, and he tries to picture Harvey doing any sort of drug harder than...than...bourbon, cigars, and coffee. He can't do it.

That gets Harvey's attention, his head whipping away from the TV so he can turn and look at Mike with something strangely intense and almost angry in his eyes, such a drastically different look from a moment ago. "No." His answer is clipped, and Mike blinks in surprise at the force behind it. "That's not it at all."

"Then why? I don't get it. What's she got against him?"

"What she's got is the certainty that, if it weren't for him, I'd have graduated number one in my class, instead of fucking around at Harvard. But she saw deeper into me than anyone else and trusted her instinct." Harvey fixes Mike with a look that he can virtually feel pressing upon him. "She thinks Nick was a distraction that kept me from realizing my potential, and he led me to some poor choices."

 _Like selling your soul and ridding yourself of emotion_ , Mike wants to joke, only he can't, because what Harvey's just said is that he hates Trevor for the same sort of thing, and something in Harvey has faith in Mike, recognizes some sort of skill or talent he thinks can override everything else, if given the proper guidance.

"Oh," he mumbles, staring down at his cup of coffee. What can he even say to that?

Thankfully, Mike's spared any more of this particular conversation by someone wearing a chef's coat (again with the Starfleet Insignia, this time above the chest pocket), who's holding a small plate of something Mike can't see.

"Here you are, Harvey," the chef says, handing over the dish with a wide smile. "Fresh batch from the oven."

"Thanks, Jackson," Harvey says, and there's none of that 'oh, look, the peasant's just come with the offering' tone to it. Instead, his response is warm and genuine, like he's thanking an old friend for some small demonstration of friendship, rather than a favor or expected tribute.

"Would you like one?" Jackson says, looking at Mike and still smiling, as if any friend of Harvey's is a friend of his. It's not as if he knows Mike and Harvey aren't friends, after all.

Mike takes a look at the navy blue apron, dusted with powdered sugar or flour, the bit of cinnamon at chest-level, and a smear of what looks like dried donut icing where his right hand would fall, and hesitates. He can't even see what's on Harvey's plate. But this guy's definitely a baker and not a chef, and Mike can't think of a pastry he doesn't like.

"He'd love one," Harvey says before Mike can answer, giving Mike a look that clearly says he's taken too long to respond and is being insolent. Jackson nods and heads back for the kitchen, and Harvey shakes his head at Mike. "Don't show up at my coffee shop and be rude with the employees."

" _Your_ coffee shop?" Mike repeats, hearing Harvey's voice in his head, lecturing him about his actions being a reflection of Harvey. "Oh my God, you come here that often, you're territorial about it." He knows Harvey's a closet (or maybe not-so-closeted) Trekkie; the random references to it and his sharp insistence that Captain Kirk is _the man_ demonstrate it clearly, but he's having a hell of a time thinking of Harvey Specter as the kind of guy who frequents intensely geekily-themed places like this, where they probably stone you with week-old scones if you ask a stupid question about the franchise.

Harvey rolls his eyes and takes a bite of whatever pastry's on his plate. "Yeah, so? Besides, you never even said what the hell you're doing in Hell's Kitchen on a Sunday." At least, that's what Mike thinks he says, around the mouthful of food.

"I still say that's disgusting," Mike mutters. Somehow, telling his boss--especially one he might have sort of a thing for, when he's not in danger of spewing crumbs everywhere--that he's on his way home from a disastrous attempt at casual sex to relieve some tension doesn't really appeal to him. Go figure. "Didn't anyone ever teach you not to talk with your mouth full?"

"What are you, my nanny?"

Mike can't even think up a good enough smartass answer to that question before Jackson shows up and hands Mike a small plate with a quick "here you go" that barely leaves Mike time to thank him before he's gone again. He finally gets a good look at the thing Harvey's enjoying, all golden dough and cinnamon and caramel and pecans, and then the smell of it hits him and his mouth waters. It's enough to completely make him forget that, twenty minutes ago, his stomach was less than thrilled about his decisions the night before.

The sticky bun tastes even better than it looks, if that's somehow possible, and Mike's eyes roll into the back of his head and he groans. He hears Harvey snort a little, can feel that crooked smirk and eye roll from him without even having to open his eyes and look. "Oh my God." His mouth is still full as he says it, the very thing he always gives Harvey shit for, but anyone who tasted this pastry would instantly forgive him.

"Good, aren't they?"

Mike swallows, taking a sip of his drink to keep himself from choking. "Good? I may have to start coming here on Sundays, just for these."

"All the way down to Hell's Kitchen, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe," Mike says, stuffing another large bite into his mouth. It's like an explosion of butter and sugar and awesome, and should probably be illegal.

Harvey laughs a little. "I suppose that would be a good enough reason for the trek out here. Probably better than the reason you're here now, whatever that is. You never did say."

There's suddenly that falling away of good humor Mike recognizes, signifying when Harvey drops the play-acting and humoring the other person in the conversation, and goes in for the kill, suddenly serious and deadly instead of warm and amused. Fuck. He stops chewing, his eyes coming open, knowing wherever this goes, he wishes it wouldn't.

"Clothes look more suited for a night out than a Sunday jaunt, and I'd wager you're hung over. And you said something about a bus. Come all the way out here just for a booty-call, Mike? Or did you just pick up someone you met randomly?"

"You're not exactly the kind of person to be lecturing on one-night stands," Mike finally gets out. The bite of sticky bun he's swallowed feels lodged in his chest.

"I'm not. Fun's fun, Mike, and I'm not your nursemaid. But you don't even look like it was any good--or maybe you just didn't go through with it." Mike can feel the look on his own face betray him, so it's no surprise that Harvey picks up on it. "You didn't." Harvey squints at him, considering, and Mike squirms. "And not because you were unable. You backed out. Went to, I don't know, relieve some stress and found it wasn't what you were hoping?" Harvey shakes his head. "What'd you think, you were all _pon farr_ or something?"

Mike's definitely much more of a Star Wars than Star Trek kind of guy, but he has seen that term and some titles before, doodled on the notebook of a very sweet-looking girl in one of his high school English classes. Some sort of 'get laid or die' thing, he's pretty sure, though he doesn't know the details. He scoffs a little, trying to brush it off, as an employee walks by and refreshes Harvey's coffee. " _Pon farr_? Like from _The Ring of Soshern_?" The employee giggles quietly, and Harvey shoots her the quickest of smirks before looking back at Mike, his eyebrows raised high. "Yeah, right."

"I was thinking more _Amok Time_ than _Ring of Soshern_ ," Harvey drawls, looking incredibly amused, as he thanks the girl for the refilled mug. She's still giggling as she walks away. "But I see you haven't denied last night's events." He looks at Mike for what feels like forever, then shakes his head. "Well, we all make our own mistakes. Except me. Because I--"

"Don't make mistakes," Mike finishes for him. Harvey smirks and turns back to his pastry and the giant TV, and Mike knows he's deliberately been given that out, though he doesn't exactly know why. He finishes his bun without saying anything else, instead just watching the way Harvey lounges beside him, watching an episode he's probably seen a hundred times, and Mike wonders what that odd little contemplative smile on his face means, though he honestly can't come up with anything.

They sit there for quite a while like that, until Mike looks at his phone and realizes he's five minutes from missing his bus. "Shit, I've gotta go." He stands, picking a stray pecan off his shirt. Harvey rolls his eyes, catching him at it, but gets up as well.

Without saying anything, Harvey reaches over and takes Mike's plate and deposits both their dishes into the plastic tub on top of the trash can. "Might as well be off, myself."

They head for the door together, Mike still clutching his coffee as they step outside. The girl--well, woman, actually; she looks at least five years older than Harvey--who refilled Harvey's coffee gives them both a peculiar smile and waves them a goodbye, and Mike catches the questioning eyebrow she gives Harvey when she thinks Mike's not looking. Harvey just gives her that 'I'm trying to be irritated, but I'm actually sort of amused' expression, complete with the rolled eyes, and shakes his head no. No words exchanged, but Mike knows there's something there. Some reference, or joke, to go along with the unspoken question.

"Okay, so, what was that?" he asks once they step out into the sunlight. He immediately regrets his lack of sunglasses. He'd almost forgotten about the hangover in there, drinking coffee and eating a sticky bun with Harvey lounging beside him.

"What was what?" Feigned innocence. Of course.

"That woman kept laughing. What was so funny? Do I have caramel on my nose or cheek or something?" He swipes quickly at his face, but feels nothing out of the ordinary.

Harvey's face does this thing Mike's seen once or twice before--he smiles. Not the 'I'm an awesome lawyer and I'm about to crush you in my fist' grin, or even the 'I've just won a case and impressed that woman who's now eye-fucking me' confident smirk. This is more like...more like he's close to just losing his shit and laughing his ass off over something. Mike quickly looks down, just to make sure, but his fly's zipped, so at least it's not that. " _The Ring of Soshern_?" Harvey asks, and his mouth twitches, as if he really is fighting not to laugh himself sick.

"Yeah?" Mike responds, cautiously. He knows the complete list of episode names of all _The Next Generation_ episodes, because his dad's friend had them printed out on a list Mike had seen back when he was eight or so, but he doesn't have such a reference for any of the ones from _The Original Series_. He probably should, though, now that he knows his boss frequents places like this. He's never failed to catch a movie quote Harvey's tossed at him, and Harvey's never failed to recognize any Mike's done, but this is...this is different, apparently. "What, did I pronounce it wrong and sound like an idiot? I've only seen it written, okay?"

"You think that's an actual episode from the show?"

"...I did, until you said that just now." Mike hesitates, looking over his shoulder for his bus, which still isn't in sight. "Why's it so funny, then? Isn't that a title of something?"

"Oh, it's a title, all right," Harvey says, and his voice is tight and a little high with barely-contained laughter. "But not an episode."

Mike sighs. "This is one of those things you're going to always remember, and remind me of when I'm being brilliant and you think I need to be brought down to earth, isn't it?" Harvey only smiles harder, his eyes crinkling to what seems like an impossible degree. "All right. Get it over with. Tell me what I fucked up."

"Well, amazingly, you were right about one thing: _The Ring of Soshern_ does involve _pon farr_ , which is a concept introduced in _Amok Time_. And you seem to be aware of the term's meaning on some level. But _Ring of Soshern_ is an old, fairly infamous story written by a fan back in the seventies." Harvey lets out a little laugh that's almost a snort. "You didn't know that, I assume?"

"...No." Not his most brilliant moment, but it really shouldn't be this amusing to everyone else. Mike knows a lot of Trekkies delight in knowing all these intimate details, and he'd known one kid, back when he was a bike messenger, who used to take great joy in correcting others in any sort of error like this, but come on--it's hardly this funny.

"Then you definitely don't know that the story in question focuses on an erotic, romantic relationship between James Kirk and Spock."

Mike feels his face go a little warm. He's not oblivious to the fact that fanfiction exists, or that probably a fair chunk of it is an outlet for porn, but yeah, okay, this might explain why the girl refilling Harvey's coffee seemed so amused.

But for there to be amusement, someone would have to know about all the stuff outside the show. There's a whole subculture, isn't there? Which begs the question...

"Wait," Mike says, cocking his head a little to look at Harvey. "How do _you_ know all this stuff?" Gears whirl in his head, and a possibility hits him, amusing enough as a thought, even if he's wrong. "Have you ever read fanfiction, Harvey?" The instant loss of laughter on Harvey's face is all the proof he needs, and suddenly Mike doesn't care that he was so conspicuously wrong back there, because of what it's uncovered. "Have you _written_ any? A--a treatment, or maybe even just a bit of fiction for yourself?"

He's gleeful, now, even though Harvey's nearly glowering at him. "Oh my God. You've written it. You're that big a fanboy. Have you ever cosplayed as Kirk, Harvey?" Harvey's ears go a little pink, but he doesn't say anything. "You have, haven't you? Are there--? Oh, there have to be. There are pictures, and I bet Donna's the one that's got them. I wonder what I'd have to--"

"Bus is here," Harvey interrupts, and he's right. Damn it. "Go home, Mike. Shower. I'll see you in the morning. But try to wear a fresh outfit this time?" And then he just turns and heads the opposite direction, right past the bus with the impatient-looking driver, leaving Mike sort of disoriented in a way he wants to blame on the hangover, but probably can't.

"Hey, Mike?" Harvey calls as Mike's stepped aboard, causing him to have to peek out the half-opened window by the seat he's clambered into so he can hear Harvey clearly. "Don't even bother asking Donna. If she's holding those over me, what do you think I'm holding over her?" Harvey gives him a cheeky little salute before he turns and walks away, hands shoved into his pockets, and all Mike can do is gape at the apparent admission.

It isn't until he's halfway through his shower, almost three hours later, that Mike realizes Harvey never gave him the expected 'this never happened' line before they parted ways. But then again, this is one of those things he probably thinks Mike should just know, if he's not a total moron.

But that doesn't stop Mike from trying to picture Harvey decked out in full costume, phasers and all, later that evening, an amused smirk softly on his face as he drifts off to sleep.

\---xxx---

Monday morning dawns a lot better than Sunday did. Mike opens his eyes to the early morning sun a full three minutes before his alarm even goes off, and takes those three minutes to lie there, relaxed and warm and loose, before he shuts his alarm off and pads to the shower, even though his last was less than twelve hours ago. Because Harvey will know if he skipped it somehow, no matter how clean Mike looks, or how nice he smells.

The thought of Harvey makes Mike grin as he steps under the hot water. He'd assume he'd dreamed the whole thing--because the idea of Harvey as a fanfiction-writing, cosplaying Trekkie fanboy is absolutely _ludicrous_ \--except for the empty disposable coffee mug that's sitting on the little counter where he eats. It's just a plain white cup, no logo to be found, but it's not the ubiquitous New York City blue and white Greek coffee cup that he ends up with ninety-five percent of the time, and Mike knows that if he looks at the spot just below the lid's drink hole, he'll see a smudge of cinnamon and caramel, left by his thumb.

His stomach growls a little at the remembrance of that baker's pastries, and wonders if Harvey will want to kill him if Mike shows up there next weekend to partake of whatever the hell Jackson decides to bake. He shakes his head and reaches for the bottle of body wash. It didn't happen, he reminds himself, if only so he won't do something stupid like mention it at the office, or even mention that he'd run into Harvey outside of work.

Only it did happen, and it made Mike's _week_.

He wonders if Harvey will deny him his next bonus check if Mike slips a tie-tack shaped like the Enterprise into Harvey's Christmas card. Probably. Even if he can find a platinum one or something. Still...it's tempting.

Also, whatever Harvey's got on Donna has got to be _fantastic_ , if she's holding onto the sort of evidence like Mike thinks she might, and hasn't yet used it against him. Mike's pretty sure he could figure out the best bribery ever, if he paid enough attention--probably tickets to something; he's overheard her mention something like that once or twice before--but the likelihood that she'd take the payment and then deliver him over to Harvey is nearly a certainty.

He'll just have to live with the mental image. Because there's no way he's ever going to get anyone to believe him, and even less chance he'll ever see any evidence. This is Harvey Specter, after all. City's best closer. And, come to think of it, he could probably kill Mike easily, or make a call and have it done, and all it'd take is another phone call or two on that damned BlackBerry he's always playing with, and Harvey'd walk away from the murder as if it'd never happened.

Oh, but what an amusing little daydream.

Mike's still in a pretty good mood when he gets to Pearson Hardman, despite Louis prodding at him and making demands from the moment Mike steps onto the elevator in the building's lobby. But Harvey's got court in a couple of hours, and Mike's second chair for this case, too, so it's easy enough to get out of the bullshit part of the tasks Louis tries to dump on him. They probably go to Harold, who seems to be the default recipient of such things.

Harvey's shut up in his office when Mike heads over so they can head out for court, and Donna's stern look and shaken head while she's got the phone pressed to her ear let him know to stay in place, and walking in right now would be a Bad Idea. So Mike stands there and tries not to fidget too much while he waits. He's got a good feeling about court today, probably just part of his overall good mood, but he wants to get going anyway. He reaches down and snags one of Donna's four-color pens--she's the only person he's seen with these since he was a kid--and clicks the different colors in succession until Donna's voice cuts through his thoughts with a clear "click that pen one more time, and lose a thumb."

Mike stops instantly, bites his lower llp, and presses down very carefully on the red tab enough that the green one retracts, so that he won't get ink on anything as he puts the pen back on top of her memo pad. Her eyebrows go up just a fraction at the muted 'click'. "Sorry," he mumbles, stepping away just a little from her desk. He doesn't think he should be this scared of a secretary, but this is _Donna_ , and that's an entirely different ball game.

"As you should be."

Mike looks up and into Harvey's office to see Harvey glaring at his computer. He's not typing, so Mike assumes he's either reading email, or looking for something. His posture doesn't thrill Mike. "Is it one of _those_ days?" he asks, nodding his head towards Harvey's office.

"Nothing he can't handle," Donna says dismissively, her right hand moving her mouse along and tapping out a series of single- and double-clicks so rapid she might as well be sending out a message in Morse code. "Now, if I were a PDF of that agreement, where would I be...?" she murmurs, and Mike takes the shift in her attention as a dismissal. Only...

"Wait, which document are you looking for?" He remembers seeing Harvey scrawl a line on a Post-It on Friday evening, maybe an hour after Donna had gone home, and if it's what he thinks it is, he can probably save her some time. And maybe save himself and Harvey from looking like idiots in about an hour or so.

"Don't worry about it," she replies, still not paying him any attention, eyes locked on her monitor. "Just something Harvey wanted me to get to--"

"Because if it's the thing on the Marczyk board, I wouldn't worry about it."

Donna finally looks up at him. "And why's that? Because if the board votes to change the division of--"

"They won't."

"And you know that, how?" Donna prompts, eyebrows high enough for Mike to read the word 'skeptical' practically written on her forehead.

"They voted against it Saturday afternoon. Emergency convening of the board. I'm guessing they didn't feel Marczyk Junior needed to know. But it's fine. Nothing to worry about. Makes our case even easier, actually."

"You're sure about this?" Donna asks, her hand relaxing on her mouse.

"When have I been wrong?" Mike huffs, reaching again for her pen.

There's suddenly a loud, forced cough immediately behind Mike. In fact, it sounds very much like the fake 'bullshit' cough, only the word Mike hears isn't 'bullshit'--it's 'Soshern'.

Mike whirls around to see Harvey standing two steps behind him, smirking into his first. "Sorry. Must be something in the air," he says, pretend-pounding his chest with his closed fist twice and clearing his throat. "Now what is it you think you're right about this time?"

Donna answers when Mike can only stand there, trying to wrap his head around the fact that it was Harvey-- _Harvey_ \--who brought up something that happened between them outside of Pearson Hardman...though it's not as if that one word, fake-coughed into his hand, admits to anything. "He said the Marczyk board already voted on the issue. Voted against it, in fact."

"And how, exactly, would you know this?"

"Twitter," Mike finally manages, once he's discreetly pinched himself to make sure he's not having one of those really lucid work dreams. "I follow their CFO, CEO, and official account. The official one mentioned that there would be something on the shareholder's page of their site about the vote."

"But you don't hold any shares," Harvey says firmly. "You couldn't have seen the vote details, unless you hacked in somehow, and if you did, I sure as hell don't want to know about it."

"True," Mike allows. "And I didn't hack anything. But the official account replied to a tweet sent by someone who _does_ hold shares, who mentioned the vote's outcome. And that person has a public account, which lets you see the whole..." Mike smirks, just a little. "Come on, Harvey, get with the times. Learn how to use social media. I mean, really, drop the BlackBerry, get a real smart phone, and get with the program. How old are you, anyway?"

"Hey, I'm not taking lessons on getting into subcultures from the guy who can't discern Star Trek fanfiction from the actual series, all right?" Harvey retorts. Mike can feel Donna's stare, and Harvey must, too, because without even looking away from Mike, he just sighs. "Not now, D--" he starts, then changes his mind. "Fine. He found me at the coffee shop," he says with a shrug that's oddly casual, which earns him a snort of sorts from Donna.

"He saw you _there_ and you let him _live_?" she whispers, leaning in, as if they can still get away with offing Mike as long as they keep things hush-hush.

"Couldn't exactly murder him in front of Nick," Harvey says with a little smirk.

And that's all it takes for Donna's conspiratorial expression to change slowly into a wide smile. She's got that look Mike's seen her with before, that clear, pleased one, when she's figured something out with a startlingly small amount of evidence or clear indication. She's way too smart for anyone else's own good. It's part of the reason she's scary. _Part_ of the reason. "No, I don't suppose you could," she says, and the way she says it makes Mike feel like he's missing something very important. "You two might want to get a head start on leaving for court. Traffic's a mess--bad accident has it all backed up miles from the courthouse." There's something about the look on her face and her tone that makes Mike think that, while she's being totally truthful, she's got some other motive behind the suggestion.

Harvey pulls out his phone, taps on it for a few seconds, and nods. "She's right. Ray'll be here in twenty, instead of almost an hour from now. Let's go."

"But Ray won't be here for twenty, so why--?" Mike starts, then sees the look Donna is throwing him, the minute but very clear shaking of her head as she bores holes into him with her eyes. "Yeah, okay. Downstairs it is, I guess."

He waits as Harvey snags his briefcase from the office, then follows him to the elevator. He's about to ask if they're really going to stand around down there for twenty minutes, but Harvey heads off his question with a quick glance at the time and a look Mike can't _quite_ read. "We even have time for coffee," he says, and there's a bit of that questioning uplift to the end of the sentence, but not enough for it to have been meant as a direct question.

Mike steps inside the elevator behind Harvey, his confidence and good mood taking a slight dip for some reason. He feels like he's about to be called out on something, confronted in a way that's not entirely unlike being lectured by a teacher, and there's just the slightest tinge of anxiety that creeps in. It's not quite the feeling like he's about to be whacked, that Harvey and Donna are in on something together, some plan to off Mike because he knows Harvey's geeky little secret, but now that he's _had_ that thought, his mind latches onto it, because sometimes, his brain has too much free time and creativity at its disposal. "Coffee'd be good." So long as the coffee cart guy or the baristas at the Starbucks across the street from Pearson Hardman don't pull a gun on him or lace his drink with cyanide or something, yeah, okay.

Maybe he should also lay off the mobster and spy movies for a bit.

But Donna could totally be a Bond girl. And Daniel Craig's Bond wears Tom Ford, same as Harvey sometimes does.

Okay, maybe today's a day for decaf.

Harvey strides out of the building and over to the coffee cart (more witnesses on the street than in the Starbucks, but probably fewer security cameras, Mike's brain tells him, because clearly he's just paranoid now--Donna sometimes makes him feel that way, for some reason), and Mike keeps pace alongside him. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that coffee can just be coffee. They've got free time, Harvey likes coffee, _Mike_ likes coffee, and it's totally an acceptable social thing to do at pretty much any time you've got some time to kill. A look in either direction will show Mike at least a dozen people with coffee cups in their hands, most of them wearing suits (though not more than a couple will have suits half as nice as Harvey's. He's slowly beginning to be able to pick up on this sort of thing. Kind of).

Perfectly normal.

Mike relaxes a bit, but still thinks about maybe having decaf.

But Harvey orders for both of them, just two large black coffees, and hands one over to Mike after he pays. That alone is enough to put Mike a bit on edge again. They've each bought their own before, and Harvey's actually _taken_ Mike's a couple of times, as if it's his right, for just being awesome or something, but Mike can't recall a time Harvey's actually paid for them both. Harvey doesn't say anything; he just hands over the cup, readjusts his grip on his briefcase, and walks over to where they normally wait for Ray to pull up in front of the building with just the slightest non-verbal movement of his head that says "come on."

Mike can feel it before they even stop moving--this is going to be a really awkward fifteen or so minutes. Actually, the coffee's probably the best possible thing in this situation, because it gives him something to hold onto, and something to focus on, and even something to take frequent sips of, so it's not so obvious they're not saying anything to each other. If Mike _does_ say something, it's likely to be babbling--about Donna as a Bond girl, about some inane detail he's noticed about another of their cases, about the weather--basically, anything other than mentioning where he and Harvey were, just twenty-four hours ago. If Harvey can figure out something to say that isn't awkward or, hell, if he actually _has_ something to say, period, even if it's a belated warning that no one else hears about Harvey's love for a place that caters to Star Trek geeks, then that's on him. Mike can just sip at his coffee, keep quiet, and pretend not to notice the foreign and unreadable look on Harvey's face just now.

A woman walks by in a Greenpeace T-shirt, her hair in dreads and Birkenstocks on her feet, and before Mike can jokingly ask if Harvey thinks she's on her way to buy pot or sell it, Harvey laughs just a little to himself and turns to Mike. "Have you ever seen _Save the Whales_?"

"Huh?" He knows _of_ the whole 'save the whales' thing, of course, but the way Harvey says it indicates it's a movie or show or something. "Is that one of those parody things? Or a documentary?"

Harvey shakes his head, a slight smile on his face. "No. _Star Trek: Save the Whales_. It's a movie. Have you seen it?"

Okay, Mike _may_ have fucked up the whole _Ring of Soshern_ thing, but he's pretty damn sure that's not a legit title of anything. "There's no such thing."

"No, there is," Harvey insists. "Spock's a hippie and everything."

"Oh, shut up. I get it, I suck at Star Trek knowledge."

"No, really. They travel back in time to the 1970s, because they need a whale. To stop the aliens from destroying Earth."

"Harvey, really, even I'm not that gullible." Points to him for creativity, though.

"It's called _Star Trek: The Voyage Home_!" Harvey presses. "It's the movie that used the line 'nuclear wessels'!"

He knows that line, at least, even if his frame of reference is an old _Futurama_ episode. It's then, seeing how earnest Harvey is about this film being a real thing, that Mike knows he's telling the truth, and that Harvey must have been a kid, probably still in elementary school, when it came out, and he loved this movie unironically, like only a kid can, like how Mike used to really love Captain Planet. Still, he can't help but ask, "Seriously? That's what that's from? That's the concept?"

Harvey shrugs and takes a sip of his coffee. "Hey, man, it was the eighties."

Mike laughs at that, and suddenly all that paranoia is gone. "I think I actually have to see it to totally believe it, though."

Harvey looks at him, a half-smile on his face. "You doing anything on Saturday? Around two?"

"Don't think so," Mike says slowly, his stomach doing a funny little move at the way Harvey's mouth looks when just the one corner is turned up like that. "Why?"

"They're playing it on the second floor of the coffee shop. Giant screen up there. Sound's even pretty good."

Mike just blinks at Harvey for a moment and tries to make his brain work. "Are you telling me I should try to come?"

"No. I'm asking if you want to go."

A slow smile spreads over Mike's face, and he's pretty sure he's got the stupidest goofy grin right now, but it's okay, because Harvey's response is to smile back. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds great. I'll, uh, meet you there at two?"

"Or I could pick you up at noon, and we could do lunch first."

Mike finally places that foreign look on Harvey's face--nervousness. Just a tiny bit of it, but definitely some. "Lunch'd be awesome." He's almost sorry when Ray pulls up just then, and they have to head off for court, even though it's not like he and Harvey are going separate ways or anything.

"Good," Harvey says, and when he puts his hand at the small of Mike's back to nudge him into the car, Mike can't help that giddy feeling that surges through him. "Can't have you frequenting Bean Me Up with me if you don't know anything about the franchise."

"It'd be nice not to be a pariah in a place with an awesome baker," Mike agrees, trying not to flail over the fact that it appears Harvey's assumed they'll both be spending time together on a more frequent basis.

"Just keep your canon straight from your fanon, and you'll be fine," Harvey laughs, settling into the car next to him, and when he actually gives Mike's hand a little squeeze, it's all Mike can do not to explode.

He might really have to start drinking decaf, after all, because he's not sure his heart can handle too much of this sort of thing. Then again, it's a risk he's willing to take.


End file.
